My Villanelle I walk into that cold winter air Wondering where exactly I’m at Touching the snow with my hands bare
The animals all just sit and stare Thinking “Does she have a hat?” I walk into that cold winter air
“Onward march,” I do declare As if I were going into combat Touching the snow with my hands bare
Where I’m going, I do not care But keeping a beat like pat, pat, pat I walk into that cold winter air
Stopping to take out my very cold pear It slips and falls to the ground like splat Touching the snow with my hands bare
Who really wonders exactly where I went and sat I walk into that cold winter air Touching the snow with my hands bare
My Pantoum
I live to love
And love to laugh
Acceptance is everything
Independent and strong
And love to laugh
When everything is gone
Independent and strong
Here by myself
When everything is gone
I stand unharmed
Here by myself
Moving forward
I stand unharmed
Acceptance is everything
Moving forward
I live to love
My "I AM" Poem I AM …curious I WONDER …about many things I HEAR …false accusations I SEE …many wrong doings I WORRY …what will happen I WANT …the truth
I PRETEND …to be invisible I FEEL …left out I TOUCH …minds and hearts I WORRY …who will get hurt I CRY …for them I AM …sympathy
I UNDERSTAND …the consequences I SAY …I don’t care I DREAM …for tomorrow I HOPE …things will change I AM …everyday thoughts
when I think of this poem, the first word I think of is "Why" Meditation By The Stove by Linda Pastan I have banked the fires
of my body
into a small but steady blaze
here in the kitchen
where the dough has a life of its own,
breathing under its damp cloth
like a sleeping child;
where the real child plays under the table,
pretending the tablecloth is a tent,
practicing departures; where a dim
brown bird dazzled by light
has flown into the windowpane
and lies stunned on the pavement--
it was never simple, even for birds,
this business of nests.
The innocent eye sees nothing, Auden says,
repeating what the snake told Eve,
what Eve told Adam, tired of gardens,
wanting the fully lived life.
But passion happens like an accident
I could let the dough spill over the rim
of the bowl, neglecting to punch it down,
neglecting the child who waits under the table,
the mild tears already smudging her eyes.
We grow in such haphazard ways.
Today I feel wiser than the bird.
I know the window shuts me in,
that when I open it
the garden smells will make me restless.
And I have banked the fires of my body
into a small domestic flame for others
to warm their hands on for a while.
I walk into that cold winter air
Wondering where exactly I’m at
Touching the snow with my hands bare
The animals all just sit and stare
Thinking “Does she have a hat?”
I walk into that cold winter air
“Onward march,” I do declare
As if I were going into combat
Touching the snow with my hands bare
Where I’m going, I do not care
But keeping a beat like pat, pat, pat
I walk into that cold winter air
Stopping to take out my very cold pear
It slips and falls to the ground like splat
Touching the snow with my hands bare
Who really wonders exactly where
I went and sat
I walk into that cold winter air
Touching the snow with my hands bare
My Pantoum
I live to love
And love to laugh
Acceptance is everything
Independent and strong
And love to laugh
When everything is gone
Independent and strong
Here by myself
When everything is gone
I stand unharmed
Here by myself
Moving forward
I stand unharmed
Acceptance is everything
Moving forward
I live to love
My "I AM" Poem
I AM …curious
I WONDER …about many things
I HEAR …false accusations
I SEE …many wrong doings
I WORRY …what will happen
I WANT …the truth
I PRETEND …to be invisible
I FEEL …left out
I TOUCH …minds and hearts
I WORRY …who will get hurt
I CRY …for them
I AM …sympathy
I UNDERSTAND …the consequences
I SAY …I don’t care
I DREAM …for tomorrow
I HOPE …things will change
I AM …everyday thoughts
Meditation By The Stove by Linda Pastan
I have banked the fires
of my body
into a small but steady blaze
here in the kitchen
where the dough has a life of its own,
breathing under its damp cloth
like a sleeping child;
where the real child plays under the table,
pretending the tablecloth is a tent,
practicing departures; where a dim
brown bird dazzled by light
has flown into the windowpane
and lies stunned on the pavement--
it was never simple, even for birds,
this business of nests.
The innocent eye sees nothing, Auden says,
repeating what the snake told Eve,
what Eve told Adam, tired of gardens,
wanting the fully lived life.
But passion happens like an accident
I could let the dough spill over the rim
of the bowl, neglecting to punch it down,
neglecting the child who waits under the table,
the mild tears already smudging her eyes.
We grow in such haphazard ways.
Today I feel wiser than the bird.
I know the window shuts me in,
that when I open it
the garden smells will make me restless.
And I have banked the fires of my body
into a small domestic flame for others
to warm their hands on for a while.